The Wayne family had erected their manor on the choicest lot on the vast
property. The house was perfectly situated to look out over the burgeoning
city across the river. In those days, the city didn’t glisten with
artificial light as it did now, the Night-Gotham gradually coming into focus
like a gleaming jewel as the sky around it darkened. It was a sight Batman
seldom saw. He was usually in the cave by now, preparing for the night
ahead, or sometimes he was in the city, arranging Bruce Wayne’s alibi through
some public appearance with a beautiful but shallow bimbo.

Back then, at least. There were no bimbos since Selina. It was
being in his room at sunset that reminded him of that earlier time. Those
first weeks after the Bane injury, that was the only time in his life that he
saw this particular view of the city at this time of day. As if the
memories were linked, the pain in his back grew worse, just as it always did
back then. This time of day, the dawn of night, when he should be in the
cave getting into costume… The pain had always grown worse then, and it
grew worse now. In his mind’s ear, Alfred suggested he take a pain pill
and settle in for the night, and in his mind’s ear, he heard his venomous,
snarling refusal. How badly he had treated Alfred back then.

He should never have sent Selina away. It was a mistake. She was
the biggest difference in his life since that earlier time, and her presence
alone would have warded off this flood of unwelcome memories. Her sudden
absence made them all the sharper.

Once again, his inner-Alfred suggested a
pain pill and sleep, and this time, he acquiesced. He settled on the bed
and shut his eyes, willing the old memories to stay in their cages, and taking
refuge, as he had back then, with a conjured Cat on a long ago rooftop.
Once again, he had hesitated when he shouldn’t. She had made him
hesitate, somehow, and he still couldn’t nail down exactly how she did it.
Over and over again, that one woman—that one criminal—somehow managed to break
his focus. To break it, play with it for a while like it was her own
personal ball of yarn, and then hand back the broken pieces with that damnable
“Aren’t I a naughty girl” grin. Once again, it led to his giving her an
opening twice as long as a fighter of her skill needed, and once again, she had
gotten away with her prize. Once again, he was left with that lingering
scent in his nostrils: lavender and vanilla mingled with leather and musk, and a
hint of tearose whenever her hair flitted past his face. Once again, he
had to track that damnable cat thief back to her lair to try to recover stolen
property rather than preventing the theft in the first place. Once again,
typing those words into the logs: Catwoman. My enemy. My equal.
Who brought a fire to my lips that Bruce Wayne’s bimbos never came close to
ringing… ringing…

He had to stretch to reach his phone, and pain shot like fire from his
shoulder to his lower back, burning through the last wisps of sleep.

..:: Didn’t wake you, did I? I wanted to say goodnight. ::..

“No, no” Bruce lied, double-checking that the line had been secured before
adding, “Bats are nocturnal. How’s the houseparty?”

..:: Woof. You’ve got me holed up with the cast of a Fellini film,
Bruce. These people are seriously strange… ::..

Richard Flay was the only one of the houseguests I knew beyond “Hi, hello.”
It was to be a weekend of parties and amusements, with loads of extra people
expected for a garden party on Saturday, clam bake Saturday night, and a
barbecue on Sunday. But Friday night was a formal dinner just for those of
us staying at the house.

Nobody had a chance to talk much during the afternoon arrivals. The son
and daughter, Rick and Fiona, went off to play tennis, while his fiancée,
Gracie, went for a swim. For the rest of us, the afternoon was all about
seeing to the luggage and settling into rooms. I’d taken the Lamborghini,
and this good-looking young man who carried my bags couldn’t take his eyes off
it. I think his hand actually trembled when he touched the door to get my
suitcase. He lingered once he’d brought the bags to my room, and I knew he
wanted to ask about it. I was patiently waiting for him to work up his
courage, but he never got past his name (which was William) because Richard Flay
kept popping in: he couldn’t find his way back to his room, he needed more
towels, he needed help reaching a high shelf, and so on.

Alone at last, I figured I had time for a shower before I had to dress for
dinner. Unfortunately, Watermill Lodge is no Wayne Manor, and it seems
there’s an odd little acoustic quirk with the plumbing. Standing in the
shower, I could hear conversation in the next room. No actual words, but
the pitch and tone came through loud and clear. It was a man and a woman
having a pretty nasty-sounding fight. I was going to ignore it, but then
the word “whore” jumped out quite distinctly from the otherwise unintelligible
garbling.

Bruce smiled at the psychological point. Everyone has particular
sights, sounds, and patterns that they key into. No matter how diverse or
jumbled the sensory landscape, certain words, written or spoken, will be noted.
Given Selina’s miserable history with F. Miller and the Gotham Post, it
wasn’t surprising that her psyche would key into that word over others.

“The man’s voice, or the woman’s?” he asked mildly.

..:: Woman’s, ::.. she answered.

Kitty’s curiosity was piqued, and I decided that if I wasn’t going to spend
dinner playing Guess The Combatants, it would be best to skip the shower and
hear no more. So I threw on the cocktail dress I’d brought for the
occasion: a pale yellow silk, sleeveless but no cleavage, nothing too sexy for
this crowd. I added some simple gold earrings, ran a brush through my
hair, and went down to dinner early… And was immediately foiled by my own good
intentions. Just I stepped into the hall, I saw the door to the next room
over open and Rick come out. Male voice identified. Now feline
curiosity really wanted to know who the woman was that he was fighting with, and
whom she was calling a whore.

Luckily, I wasn’t the only one who got downstairs early. Oliver was
there, and he offered me a tour of the house. He asked about Bruce, of
course, said what a pain those squash injuries can be, and mentioned running
into him last month at his health club, that kind of thing. He also said
how relieved he was that I hadn’t worn some big piece of Wayne heirloom jewelry,
because Noel was a little afraid about being outshone.

“I’m sure that sounds silly to you,” he said apologetically, “but Noel was a
model, after all, and in her day she was called the most beautiful woman in the
world. Now, she has a son old enough to be getting married. I’m sure
she can be forgiven a few harmless vanities.”

I agreed, and when Noel came down to dinner, I made a point of complimenting
her necklace.

The rest of the cocktail hour chitchat was taken up with introductions.
The only person I didn’t know at all was Daniel Eagan: late 30s, bit of a
southern accent, nice looking if a bit too “pretty” for my taste. He said
he was a professional poker player, but he said it like it was a joke. He
seemed to know everybody, but he didn’t seem to know anyone well. Just
what his connection was to the family, why he was there or what he actually does
for a living, I have no clue.

Dinner was pretty odd. It seems that
Richard Flay’s friend, Nicola Dulch, had played a little visit to the seating
chart. Nothing was said openly, but I heard a few whispers. Gracie
was the guest of honor, no surprise there; it was her engagement to Rick that
the whole weekend was celebrating. She was to be seated at Oliver’s right,
and I had the second highest position on our host’s left—which was certainly no
compliment to my social status, but to Bruce’s. If he was there,
Bruce would have been seated in the opposite position at the other end of the
table on Noel’s left, but seeing as he wasn’t, Nicola was asking if I could be
booted down the chain a few places to let her have the seat next to Oliver.
Noel didn’t care (and I certainly wouldn’t have minded if anyone had asked me),
but Oliver evidently vetoed the idea. It made for a very strange prelude
to a very strange meal.

..:: Cream of edamame soup, an artichoke, lobster themador, endive salad,
and crème brulee, ::.. Selina volunteered, simply to head of any more
questions about irrelevancies like Noel’s necklace.

Once again, Bruce grunted.

No butler, but there was a footman to do
the serving. I heard Noel call him William and looked—sure enough, it was
the same kid who bought up the luggage and couldn’t take his eyes off the
Lamborghini. Richard Flay couldn’t take his eyes off William.
Nicola kept her eyes on Oliver the way I used to track a pair of emeralds
through a party. And all I can say about the crosscurrents between Rick,
Fiona and Gracie is that I’ve sat in the drawing room between Eddie and Bruce
trapped in their day-faces, politely chatting about opera when all they both
wanted was to put on some masks, step outside, and beat the living hell out of
each other.

After dinner, Richard Flay appropriated me for an in-depth discussion of the
MoMA’s new exhibit (yet again, made possible by a generous grant from the Wayne
Foundation), and I lost track of most of the others’ movements. But I’m
fairly sure Nicola finally cornered Oliver. The pair of them seemed to
drift off in the general direction of his study, and it seemed like they were
both missing for about twenty minutes. I never did see when Oliver
returned, but Richard noticed when Nicola got back, and that she was quite
ashen. He speculated that either the lobster or something she just heard
about long-term investments in Bear Sterns wasn’t settling very well.

He went off to talk to her, but I was only on my own for a second before
Daniel Eagan appeared from nowhere. He gave off that vibe…

“What do you mean, ‘that vibe?’” Bruce hissed.

..:: Oh come on, Bruce. You know very well what I mean. I
never had the pleasure of tangling with the Fop personally, but from what I’ve
heard, ‘the vibe’ was your specialty. If I was interested, he was ready,
willing, and eager. ::..

“And he knows you’re with me?” the menacing Bat-voice graveled.

..:: Technically, but I’m here alone, and I might be the sort that plays
around.::..

“Anything else?” Bruce asked darkly.

..:: As a matter of fact, yes. Seeing as I’m a guest here and
spending the next three days under the same roof with this guy, I opted for
evasive maneuvers rather than clawing. Landed me in this little alcove
behind a set of French doors, where I found this note. ‘F I have it.
Bring the money.’ Boathouse 9. ::..

He grunted.

“Since there aren’t nine boathouses on the property, that presumably means 9
o’clock. Was it after nine when you found the note?”

..:: Yeah, much. It was nearly eleven. I can still go out to the
boathouse and poke around if you want. Not like I need my beauty rest. ::..

Bruce considered this, but decided against it.

“No, not worthwhile at this point. Is there anything else unusual about
the note?”

..:: Unusual? Bruce, it’s a note. It wasn’t left at the Bat-Signal
and it’s not asking the air-speed velocity of an African swallow. What
qualifies as unusual? ::..

“The F,” Bruce sighed. “Does it have a period after it, like an
initial?”

..::No, but the F is in the top left over the other words, like it’s being
addressed to “F.” I think we can assume the initial is implied. ::..

“F. I have it. Bring the money. Boathouse 9,” he recited.

..::Actually, it’s ‘Bring’ and then a dollar sign. ‘the money’ was my
interpret—::..

.:: Bruce, are you ready to tell me what the hell I’m doing here? ::..

There was a long pause. Then, rather than answering, Bruce said:

“I miss you.”

There was a longer pause, and then…

..:: So, this is pretty important stuff, eh? You want me there with
you, lying next to you right now, in our bed, running my fingertips over your
chest, right over the emblem, right over the scar, purring you to sleep, but
instead, you’ve got me here playing ‘lobster and lovenotes’ with the cast of a
Fellini film. ::..

Bruce closed his eyes and expelled a long, shuddering breath.

Breaking his focus. Pawing it like her own, personal ball of yarn.
Then handing it back in pieces and expecting him to pick up where he’d left off
like nothing at all had happened… How very little had changed.

Wayne Manor would always be home to Dick Grayson. He didn’t call ahead
and seldom bothered with the doorbell. But today, since his arms were
full, he jostled boxes and pressed the button with his elbow—and then kicked
himself for being so thoughtless. As soon as the door began to open, he
started apologizing in a frenzied rush:

“Alfred, I am so sorry, I didn’t think. I just thought ‘hands full’ and
it never even occurred to me… You must have so much extra work right now,
what with Bruce being laid up and everything. And all I had to do was set
down the boxes and get my key—”

“Master Dick,” Alfred beamed. “What a pleasure it is to welcome you
home, young sir. Do come in. Here, let me help you with those
parcels.”

Dick jostled his boxes again but felt obligated to repeat his apology when
Alfred reached out to help.

“Oh no, please, I can manage. I already put you to enough trouble.”

“In ringing the doorbell, sir?”

Dick took a deep breath, and then explained:

“None of us did very well last time, Alfred—when Bruce got hurt, I mean.
We let him push us away, and we never should have, no matter what he said.
I know the weight of it all pretty much fell on you, and, well, Babs and I
talked about it. If nothing else, this is a chance to make up for it a
little. Babs went through all her favorite movies and picked out a bunch
for Bruce to watch while he’s laid up. Otherwise, we figure he’ll probably
just brood and read Dostoyevsky while Selina is gone. Or maybe back issues
of the FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin. But we’re worried about you, too.
Must be a lot more work for you.”

Alfred could barely contain his emotion.

“Master Dick,” he said warmly, “there is no greater mark of character than to
acknowledge the errors of one’s past, and then to go beyond simple
acknowledgement or expressions of remorse, to actively making restitution.
I am very proud of you, young sir.”

Dick swallowed and blushed profusely.

“Well, eh…” he floundered helplessly, and Alfred quickly returned to the
original conversation:

“As you say, Master Dick, there is certainly some variance in the household
routine, but the additional work upstairs is offset by the suspension of the
master’s downstairs activities.”

“Ah. Well, I’m going to be down there each night myself. I
figured it’s better if I work off Batman’s at-large list and use his routines to
design a patrol route. Will that make any more work for you? Because
I could always use the satellite cave under the Wayne Tower and—”

“Not at all, sir. Will you be changing into costume here?”

“Yeah, I guess. But don’t feel you need to do laundry or anything.
I can always pick up a few days worth of clothes during the week and run them
back home.”

Alfred’s glare expressed disapproval as vehement as his earlier approval.

“It is best if you leave those considerations to me, Master Dick.
Nightwing should simply make use of the cave’s resources in whatever way you
think best, and permit me to provide such support services as I deem necessary.”

“Yessir,” Dick said. He was
seventeen again. Nightwing was years in the future, and he had just
brought home a B-minus on his English test after Alfred spent so much time
quizzing him on A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“Master Bruce is in his study,” Alfred said mildly, picking up one of the
boxes. “I am sure he will find this selection of films most diverting.”

“Yes,” Dick said, with renewed confidence. “Babs has good instincts for
that kind of thing… Oh, and Alfred, I like to start patrol a little
earlier than Bruce. Could you maybe have a little snack ready for me
around 8 o’clock or so. Grilled cheese and maybe some fruit?”

“Very good, sir,” Alfred said approvingly.

Bruce interlaced his fingers thoughtfully as Dick pulled DVD after DVD out of
a cardboard box, consulted a slip from his pocket, and arranged them in little
stacks on the desk.

“Looks like day three of your Babs-Flix
marathon will be devoted to sizzling chemistry: To Have and Have Not, The Big
Sleep and Key Largo. See what that ‘Bogey and Bacall’ thing was
all about, I guess. The ways of the All-Seeing Oracle, they are
mysterious.”

“Not that mysterious,” Bruce noted with a lip-twitch.

With Selina gone, he was alone as he had been after the Bane injury.
“Sizzling chemistry” would remind him of the Cat and Bat as they had been,
making him feel her absence more acutely. The next day she would return
home, and he couldn’t help but contrast his life then and now.

“Here's something interesting,” Dick said,
reading off his slip. “Wikipedia story Babs found on Lauren Bacall.
They were doing her screen test, and she was nervous: only nineteen, big
Hollywood studio, her first time before the cameras. So to minimize her
quivering, she pressed her chin against her chest, and then she had to tilt her
eyes upward to face the camera. Became known as ‘The Look,’ smouldering
hot and her special trademark. Just goes to show how what you think
is happening can be so far off from what’s really happening.”

“What I think is happening,” Bruce said ominously, “is Superman was off world
to rescue his father and then traveled into the future to help the Legion.
Flash, Aquaman, and Martian Manhunter took turns covering his monitor duty, and
he’s been paying them back for weeks taking over their shifts. He sits
there, he’s got time on his hands, he gets bored, and he opens the Watchtower
interface to the OraCom and starts chatting with Barbara. Intentionally or
not, he taps into the inner matchmaker, and here we are.”

Dick started to object, when Alfred
coughed from the doorway. He didn’t want to call Bruce “crazy paranoid” in
front of Alfred, so Dick shifted his attention to the DVD case for Key Largo.
Alfred came in with a telephone on a silver tray, announced that Miss Selina was
calling from Watermill Lodge and that he had already secured the line.
Dick took the DVD to the window as if he needed more light to read.

His maneuver to give Bruce a little privacy was wasted, for Bruce waved him
back almost immediately and, after double-checking with Alfred that the line had
been encrypted, he switched the phone to open speaker mode.

“Selina, say that again,” he ordered.

..:: Noel Lyon is dead,::.. came the crisp reply. ..::
She didn’t come down to breakfast this morning. Oliver sent the maid up to
check on her, and… well, the commotion is still in progress. But the
hostess is dead, so I’d expect the party to be breaking up ASAP. Except
for the immediate family, and maybe that cousin of hers if she’s staying for the
funeral. So I’ll be ho—::..

“Stop. Back up. You’re not going anywhere until we know more.”

“How did she die?” Dick mouthed silently, but Bruce shook his head
dismissively. He had other priorities:

“Selina, go to Noel’s room. Stay inside the house if you possibly can,
but do whatever you need to in order to get there without being seen.”

There was a pause.

“Do it!” Bruce barked.

Another pause, and then…

..:: I’ll call you back. ::..

Tense minutes passed. Alfred’s attention flickered around the study,
the impulse to “tidy” providing an excuse to stay and hear more.

“I don’t get it,” Dick was saying. “Item one: ascertain the cause of
death. ‘Cause if it’s nothing suspicious and this woman just keeled over
from a heart attack or something, then sending Selina to snoop is—”

“The death is suspicious,” Bruce
said tersely. “Anything happening around Oliver Lyon right now is
suspicious. And time is the enemy. We’ll find out how Noel died soon
enough, that isn’t going to change. But anything in that bedroom can—and
no doubt will—change within the hour, and I need Selina there before it does.”

The three men stared at each other until the phone rang again.

“Selina?” Bruce barked.

..:: Uh, no. Not quite,::.. Barbara’s cool Oracle voice
replied. ..:: I’ve got her on the OraCom. She said it’s easier
than juggling the cell phone right now, and you would understand why. So
turn it on. I’ve got her on channel four.::..

Bruce dropped his head into his hand and massaged his brow while Dick pulled
his com unit from his breast pocket.

“Here we go,” he breathed, plugging it into the phone speaker. “Selina
on the OraCom. Who knew she’d actually use it, eh Bruce?” He smiled,
and Bruce glared. “Eh, okay, channel four,” he ended lamely.

..:: Hello? ::.. Selina whispered.

“We read you,” Bruce said formally. “Go on.”

..:: Uh, well, she’s laying here. ::..

“What’s the bed situation look like?” Bruce asked. “Does it look like
she shares the room with her husband? Or separate bedrooms?”

..:: You do understand that there’s a dead woman lying here at my feet,
right? ::..

“You do understand it’s Batman telling you to break into a safe and paw
someone else’s property?”

..:: … ::..

Dick stared openmouthed as Bruce scowled at the telephone, counting down from
three with his fingers. Then:

..:: I’ll call you back. ::..

The safe was only a JSR mini with a
digital lock, so it’s not like it took all my concentration. I had plenty
of free braincells to focus on the fact that I had let Bruce send me into this
crazy house as an agent of the Bat. I had plenty of free braincells to
point out that I was practically stepping over a dead woman to open a safe
simply because he said so… and plenty of others to remind me that (grunt) he was
Batman. Batman directly and unambiguously telling me to open up someone
else’s safe is quite a turn on and the one form of catnip this kitty can
never pass by…

But I still hate following orders. He gets that tone that just assumes
you’re going to do whatever he wants, and… well, that’s as far as I got when the
pathetic little JRS digital gave up the fight and swung open to reveal its
secrets.

..:: It’s a fake::..

“What do you mean it’s a fake?”

..:: Does ‘fake’ have some other meaning I’m not familiar with?
Bruce, it’s a fake. She’s only got one necklace in here. It’s the
one she wore to dinner last night.::..

“The one you said was a rose quartz?”

..:: Well, it’s not like I put it under a jeweler’s loop. I couldn’t
get that close then, and a stone this size you don’t exactly assume ‘diamond.’
But I’m close now, and if it was real, yeah, totally with you: ‘fairly
spectacular’ would be the mot juste. But it’s not real. It’s
moi—shit, someone’s coming… ::..

The men listening in the study waited in silence for a moment, then Dick
asked:

“Moisshit?”

“Moissanite,” Bruce graveled. “A diamond substitute like cubic
zirconium, but it wears better, maintaining its clarity and color in a way that
CZ cannot. If it’s cut well, with a faceted girdle, its brilliance is
indistinguishable from a real diamond.”

“Yeah, but these people don’t need to buy a fake, right? I mean, Lyon
Publishing, they’re in your league.”

“That’s not the pertinent question,” Bruce said, his eyes locked on the com
link. “Ask yourself what the true incongruity is with respect to that
necklace?”

..:: Bruce? ::.. the speaker hissed. ..:: That footman
came into the room just now. Y’know, William, the kid who carried my bags.
He just snuck in here and was rummaging around Noel’s exercise machine. I
think he took a bottle or something with him. ::..

“You THINK?”

..:: I’m on a ledge outside the window, Stud. I don’t have the best
line of sight on— ::..

“You’re on a ledge?”

..:: Not a lot of options here. It’s not like I can fit in the
vents. It was this or the closet… oh shit, here comes another one.
::..

Once again, the line went quiet. Dick knit his brow, and then pointed
to the com link.

“Selina. She’s the incongruity.
If someone named Lyon, as in ‘sounds like LION,’ had a ‘fairly
spectacular’ diamond, then Catwoman should know about it. She certainly
wouldn’t be assuming a stone that size must be rose quartz.”

“Correct,” Bruce nodded curtly.

Dick studied his mentor: he seemed grimly satisfied with Dick’s reasoning,
and Dick couldn’t help but wonder if Bruce was even aware of the new variable
this line of thought introduced.

“Do you think it was a good idea to make her put her fingerprints on it?”

“What?” Bruce said, the word coming out as a softly expelled breath as he
looked up sharply.

“Her fingerprints, Bruce. I doubt she’s running around that house in
costume. You make her go to a dead woman’s bedroom while the body is still
warm, crack her safe and feel up her ‘fairly spectacular’ diamond?”

There was a long pause, and then…

“Selina is a professional. I’m sure she’s taken all necessary
precautions.”

“She’s a pro at what she does, not at what we do. And she’s acting as
your eyes and ears right now. I wouldn’t count on her viewing it as a
Catwoman operation.”

..:: Get this, first that William kid comes in, fishes around the exercise
machine and takes away a bottle of something. Then Gracie comes in.
Y’know, the fiancée? She just snuck in and went around the whole damn
room, looking behind every painting. ::..

“She’s looking for the safe,” Dick noted.

..:: Well, duh. That’s what people who just know wall safes from the
movies think: gotta be hidden behind a big oil painting.::..

“And Noel’s is hidden where?” Bruce asked.

..:: Under the television. She’s got one of those TV cabinets
disguised as an armoire. TV on top, DVD and a speaker underneath.
Speaker is the safe.::..

“So this Gracie didn’t find it?” Dick asked.

..:: Nope. She didn’t get to finish looking. Oliver and Fiona
came in with the undertaker. He took the body, and Oliver left with him.
Fiona stayed behind. Take a wild flying guess what she did.::..

“Checked behind an oil painting for the safe?” Dick said.

“No,” Bruce shook his head. “She searched around the exercise machine,
looking for something but not finding it. Because William the footman had
already found it and taken it away.”